Empty Eden
by Maiafay
Summary: Uroboros has produced a lush, but empty world. A new breed of plaga have adapted, a species who crave blood...and flesh. Playing god has consequences, and Albert Wesker discovers his 'punishment' has only begun. Wesker/Claire, Wesker/Plaga
1. Hunter Becomes The Hunted

**Warnings: **Post RE5, mature themes, non-con, violence, language.

**Pairings:** Wesker/Claire, Wesker/Plaga (new species), implied Wesker/Excella

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**AN:** This is pure indulgence, but what fanfic isn't? Inspired by I Am Legend, vampires in general, Splice, and Anne Rice's Sleeping Beauty saga (and those who have read that, you know what you're in for!)

Anyway I wanted to set this story apart from Wesker's Chosen, but at the same time, expand on elements that won't make it into that particular story (reasons being they didn't fit, or detracted from the main plotline).

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_Critique requested and encouraged :) _

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**-Empty Eden-**

_The __Old World__ passes with a sigh, forgotten, _

_Empty except for one. _

_Wanderer, sifting through sand with stained fingers. _

_They tremble, refuse to believe, _

_The pearls are too deep. _

_The ocean called Guilt cries his name. _

_Black waters. Lifeless. _

_He will not answer._

Water swirled down a hole. Insulated piping. Six winters without maintenance and still going strong. His lucky day. No strainer for the drain, the dark hole drew his eyes. Riveting. Such mundane simplicity, and yet elegant complexity. Before he ended the world, water had gone down, traveled through miles of catch basins, pipes, and pump stations until it reached the treatment plant to be filtered and spat out again. Behold, the wonders of Green technology.

Ingenious, and now irrelevant.

Same with the soap. Pearly pink sludge inside a dirty dispenser. The sign above the dingy mirror: _Employees MUST wash their hands before returning to work._ Many would have considered the sign, but never heeded it. Not blissful ignorance. Willful stupidity. They would be fine. No worries. It would never happen to them.

Albert Wesker closed his eyes, counted to ten with slow, deep breaths. Two days without incident. A record. Sleep had arrived late this morning, a harried visitor who left too soon. Still, oblivion for a few hours. By midday tomorrow he would reach Detroit. A city that size held promise. And danger. An abundance of nooks and crannies for them to hide and wait. He would have to be vigilant.

To think, he had once desired an end to the monotony, the constant silence.

Now he wished for peace.

When the drain had lost its appeal, the cracks on the floor tile commanded his attention, the designs they made when they intersected the stains and splotches of black. Faded by time, but he smelled the blood, the sweetness of oil, and the stench of old meat. He studied the door knob not a soul had turned in the last six years. Had it squeaked before? On the wall beside the door, someone had written _Richard + Sue 4 eva_ inside a wobbly pink lipstick heart.

Not likely, Richard. Sorry, Sue.

Guilt did not exist. What he felt was...adjustment. Acceptance? Not likely. Acceptance was tolerance of the status quo. And the current situation was intolerant. Unacceptable. Things had not gone according to his design, but the Worthy were out there – yes, fewer than he had anticipated, but he _felt_ them. He _knew _they existed.

Inside the gas station, something fell off the shelf. It had landed soft, crackling.

Samuari Edge appeared in his hands, his thumb on the hammer. He listened.

Theories.

Doritos – now so stale he could bend them into animal shapes, the bag balancing precariously on the edge of the rack for years until the vibrations from the running water had knocked them to the floor.

Plausible.

The ceiling fan – populated with generations of dust bunnies – rotated with the incoming breeze to displace a bag of petrified Oreo cookies.

Reasonable.

That package of Twinkies, fresh as the day it had been sealed, was dislodged when his coat had brushed the end cap on the way inside, and had now just decided to flop itself out of place.

Creditable.

Or the shadow figures that have been trailing him for weeks had discovered his location, and now gathered outside, on the roof, between the aisles – waiting for a chance to attack.

Most probable.

Damn that squeaking knob. And he had shut the door. Locked it. Human habits, civilized behavior. Rules he didn't need to follow, yet he did anyway.

He braced himself, his back against the door, and pretended the hand holding the gun didn't shake. Of course it didn't. The dimming bulb in his solar-powered lantern was the culprit. Not the last few weeks as the shadows added more to their ranks – hyenas chasing a limping wildebeest through the urban Savannah. Not the threat of them pouncing while he slept in fitful spurts, or the danger of them waylaying him on a deserted street.

The constant heckling. The nipping at his heels.

He cursed again, not caring if they heard him. No matter where he went, what he did, how careful he was, they still managed to find him. Even when he had hidden downwind. Left no trace of himself.

He kicked the door open. Two tried to tackle him outright, their mouths blooming lilies, breath stinking of vinegar and blue cheese. Petals of his closest attacker, dripping with mucus and yellow gobs of saliva, exploded with one shot to the face. The other bellowed and ducked behind the hot dog counter.

Ganado. Majini. Las Plagas. And now another variant.

He leaped over the counter, shooting the fleeing creature in the back of the head. Its parasite tumbled from the ruined skull and found death with another shot. Gore sprayed the display glass; decals of hotdogs with perfect curvy lines of mustard and ketchup dissolved under the blood. Corrosive fluids. That was new.

Glass shattered. More scouts appeared inside. Their gibberish speech made his head buzz. He dodged a flat two-liter bottle of Pepsi, then flung himself backwards when a jug of rancid milk whizzed by his head. My, feisty today. He shot another between the eyes, and a bullet tore the face off the one reaching for him. A third leaped onto his back. Arms wrapped around his neck, skinny sticks with the strength of five men. Unbalanced, he hit the aisle, sending candy and Planters Peanuts everywhere. His sunglasses flipped off his face and skidded under the nearby soda machine.

He threw off his assailant. Hands empty. Gun gone. Out of its sheath came his combat knife, sharpened that morning and ready for blood. His metabolism and reactions went into cellular overdrive. Heat surged inside him, his movements a blur even to himself. He slit the throat of the closest majini, stabbed another through the heart, ripping lung tissue and breaking ribs. He gutted one to his left, but his knife went too deep, caught on bone. Gloves glistening red, he abandoned his blade, pivoting to break the majini's neck coming from his right. The others pressed forward, vapid greed in their eyes. He caught one and tore out its spine, using the jagged edge as a lance to drive the others back.

Ten became five. Five little majini boys left. His eyes flitted to their points of entry, the dark street outside, newspapers like leaves raked in piles. Where were their masters? He couldn't smell them, but he could sense the weight of their stare. Bad enough the Unworthy wouldn't die, the mindless, crying things, but now the plaga had become a greater nuisance than before.

This wasn't Kijuju. What control he had over those majini ended a long time ago.

The remaining five circled him. Through their wild eyes he imagined their minds working like furious machines, pistons pumping, gears rotating. All that commotion for such simple thoughts, like dogs worrying over whether to bark or bite. His muscles fluttered in his legs, his arms. One scout laughed, an idiotic hee-hawing sound. He snapped his arm out, caught the fool in the throat and sent him sprawling into the coffee station. Plastic cups and stirrers went airborne.

Stupid animals. All of them.

Blood pounded behind his eyes. Beyond the broken window he gazed, daring their masters to appear. He resented their tactics. How effective they were. Brilliant. Annoying.

Woeful sighing behind him. Every hair on his body rose. Something nicked the underside of his jaw, blood welling. His yelp startled him. Silence had become the proverbial, his default mode. His throat protested, clenched and tickled until he coughed. The wound throbbed. Stung by them for the first time. He had always evaded before. Concentrate. Observe the symptoms: Burning. Weakness. Fatigue. Reduced speed. His metabolism slowed to a crawl. His blood became lava. The sensation boiled through his body, sweat beading, then trickling down the valley of his spine, his temples, his neck.

Hands grasped at him. He threw himself to the side, his vision tipping the opposite direction. Add dizziness to the list. One head shake and the world righted. More hands, seemed like hands, but he knew they weren't. Tentacles, a mottled pattern of black and yellow, snaked around his legs. Their lily mouths brushed the back of his neck. His leg kicked back in reflex. He jerked free of their hands, used his strength to fling their oppressive weight to the side.

Five had become fifteen.

Breathing labored, panting. The world spun. They grabbed him again. He elbowed one, but the rest clung, their fingers digging into his arms. One of them whispered in his ear, sighed against his cheek. He twitched in their grip, a bird trying to take flight. His struggles turned frenetic, as if his body resisted this strange human weakness called "panic" now surging through him. They wouldn't pierce his skin again. He would not allow it. His frantic thrashing increased, and somehow granted him freedom – or perhaps they had let him go.

They did like to chase.

He dove out the window, snagging his pants on a shard of glass. More blood. It would heal. He didn't stop running, not even when he hit an abandoned car, doors rusted open and black stains upon the ripped seat. _Unworthy,_ Excella said in his mind. Her rich voice, sultry. He gritted his teeth and regained his balance. He pawed at his breast pocket for the gun that wasn't there. They gathered behind him, their infernal sighing. He flinched and rushed toward the cluster of houses up the road. Suburbia. Enough dark places and empty rooms for him to hide.

Him. _Hiding_. Impossible.

A new, primal urge seized him. Fear. An alien emotion. Entirely useless save for producing more adrenaline to fuel his speed. The world passed by in colorless streaks. Their sighs faded, their footsteps a faint pitter-patter on the weed-infested asphalt. Wind and trees now, and a moan from an Unworthy scavenging somewhere close by. By his design, it should be eating the creatures pursuing him. Another failure.

_Oh, Albert, they eat what pleases them, _said Excella, her lashes a sooty fringe upon her pale skin, full, pouting lips. Beautiful. But hollow. Devoid of substance besides her jejune love for him, and her obsessive need to stand atop Tricell's glass ceiling. _The Las Plagas have adapted. Made themselves unappealing. Like little monarch butterflies with poison wings. You should have foreseen this, darling. _

"Enough, Excella." His throat closed over the words as if it found them painful. He leaned on the side of a small white shed, massaged where the creatures had stung him. Smooth skin and a sticky film of blood. He would have to wash that off. His blood was a beacon.

Toys in the yard, a blue rubber ball, a swingset of purple and yellow. Dolls scattered on the grass. They watched him with blank jewel eyes. He stiffened and moved to the next house.

The moon observed him through pale yellow wisps of clouds, indifferent to his plight. Night was the plagas daylight. Their ease of movement made him envious. And wary. His vision went hazy, the pulse of blood in his ears. Symptoms not abating. Venom was potent. He stopped, listened to branches creak. Uroboros left the trees alone. Leaves of red and orange, yellow and green. Autumn. He had lost track of the seasons. Keeping the days straight took effort. Time. He used to have that luxury before they began hunting him.

Next door to the swingset and dolls. A tan house, two stories, better condition. Points of entry: back door and the front. One broken window, the others intact. No basement. Good.

Roses bred out of control over the porch and side. Their scent delighted him. Lovely things. Layers of petals like lace furbelows. Red and white. Delight turned to nausea.

The door opened when he touched the handle. Convenient. One furtive glance behind confirmed no one watched. No one except the moon, and it didn't judge. He slipped inside, careful not to smear blood on the knob, the frame. Deadbolts. He used all three, and a bookcase to be certain. The broken window he blocked with another bookcase. Dark cherry. Solid wood. Stephen King, John Saul, and Robin Cook fell to the floor. More nesting material for the rodents.

At the back door, he stacked the washer and dryer, clothes still inside, reeking of mildew and molded. He made sure the lids stayed shut. After securing his barricades, he went over them a second time. And a third. If they tried to breech his temporary sanctuary, he would know.

Photos on the shelf, on the walls. He took them down, or turned them over as he passed, barest glimpses of a teenage boy with curly red hair, crooked smile. He opened drawers and found candles, matches. Bathroom downstairs, smeared with black ink from ceiling to floor. Out of the question. Up the stairs, another bathroom to the right. Blue. Fish on the border. Walls stained black. Tub as well. He almost left, but the mirror beckoned.

Damage report.

He hung a navy blue bath towel over the curtain rod, made sure the edges were flush. He swiped a broken glass off the counter, set the candles down. Sink. Cheap marble, stained on one corner with more black. He avoided touching it. The candle wick caught, crackling with dust. He lit another, blinked at the yellow halos. His vision had been affected. He raised his eyes to the mirror.

Around the wound, a contusion. He frowned, inspected it. The veins leading away from the discoloration appeared swollen. Heat there. Tender to the touch. Unable to describe exact sensation. Not pain, but a strange ache. When he pressed, that ache increased, rippled over his collar bone to his stomach, and then arched below his waist. He inhaled, his breath cutting his lungs. His image fuzzed, his eyes –

He leaned his head forward, face inches away, his eyes on his eyes. Severe pupillary response, a sliver of red and gold around a dark slanted void. He set his jaw, unnerved by the acute reaction of his body.

A creak downstairs. He pinched the candle flames and became a statue. His heart slammed against his ribs, circulating the last of the venom throughout his system. His eyes swept over the bathroom, the glass on the floor. Shards too small. Towel bar. Might work. Depended on the metal. Shower curtain bar. Bigger, sturdy. He would have to break it in half.

Steps up the stairs. Stealthy, but swift. A quiet sigh.

He hated those sighs. Why not a roar, a scream? Something loud, something less...eerie. The shower rings clinked, his gloved fingers cemented to the pole. On the curtain, the same fish as the wall border swam around a bright coral reef. Clown fish, angel fish. Even the bubbles rose in pleasing patterns. The Old World had sparkled like a gaudy necklace. Flashy, decadent, but utterly worthless.

In the hall now. Its scent wafted into the bathroom. Salt and earth. Better than their breath, but still revolting. It hesitated outside, its shadow eclipsing the band of gray between the floor and the door. The knob turned, slow, methodical. He tensed. Pressure in his arm, muscles contracting, tendons ready to burst. How had it entered the house? These bastards were ghosts.

"Father?"

The bar almost snapped in his hands. He stared at the dark blob of the creature's shadow, uncomprehending.

"We know you, Father. Inside." Its voice rasped low, thick tongue unused to words. Host sounded male, mid-thirties maybe. Its clothing rustled as it pressed against the door. An intimate gesture. Did it imagine the door was him? A fluke. The only logical explanation. None of them had ever talked before.

Perhaps he should take this chance, communicate. Discover their agenda. His mouth opened. Sand in his throat. All he managed was a hoarse croak.

Laughter in its voice, the last word came as breathy air. "Come out. We play."

And what games would those be? He doubted he'd enjoy them. He wet his tongue, tried again. "Why do you pursue me?"

The shadow did not speak.

"I ask again. What do you want?"

"Come out, Father." It thumped the door. Bold. Impatient.

"Why do you call me that?"

"You are." It sighed again, the sound of something slick and moist uncurling. Testing its petals, that stinger nestled in the middle. Another thump, the knob in its hands rotating back and forth, back and forth, as if it contemplated the inner workings of the bolts and springs. Unlocked, but the creature never tried to enter.

_Hey, Captain_," said Chris Redfield in his head. The young Chris, S.T.A.R.S newest recruit, cocky and cavalier. The good old days. The safe days. Obey Umbrella, be a good boy. He had tried. Tried very hard. But after the mansion, everything had changed. Chris snorted, unimpressed by his ruminations. _Started something you couldn't stop, didn't you? Always had a God complex, even back then. Thought you could change the world. Yeah, great job with that, sir. Oh, and you might want to check the window behind you. I think lily mouth at the door is a decoy. _

The towel flapped off the curtain rod as glass exploded from the tangle of limbs pushing through. The window frame cracked, and those cracks snaked into the walls from the combined pressure of thrashing bodies. Hands, unseeing, groped for him.

Raccoon City, his quick trip through the underground lab to save Ada Wong from her infatuation with a certain rookie cop. Zombies had stepped all over themselves to get a taste of him, throwing themselves through windows, doors, crawling on broken limbs. Pathetic.

But back then, he had plenty of room to maneuver, space to build momentum for his speed. This tiny bathroom had neither.

Fish and coral flopped to the floor, and the shower bar became a polearm. A savage thrust skewered the mass of flesh trying to get in. How they had stayed so silent climbing the roof?

The bathroom door buckled, slammed into his back, sent him crashing headfirst into the mirror. The world went dark for a few terrifying moments. He kept conscious through sheer force of will, the dark thought of what they would do to him if he did pass out, salient in his mind.

Decoy picked him up and tossed him into the hallway, a bag of bones who dented the wall when he hit. He scrambled to his feet, but the creature pounced, pinning him onto his back. Its petals opened, a barbed tentacle lashed at his face. A crimson sack throbbed under the tentacle's base, giving it a phallic appearance, tip curved like the apex of a scorpion's tail. The stinger punched his throat in rapid-fire succession. Once. Twice. Three times.

Numbness tinged with fire. Breathing became a challenge. He twisted his body, tried to heave the creature away. Fatigue weakened his efforts. A breathy sigh and it ran its hands over his chest, ripped open his body armor. Another jab with its stinger. This time delivered to his heart. His sight went gray, all sensation ceased except the blood in his veins, pumping, pumping, blissfully unaware it spread toxins to every cell in his body.

More of them came. They peered over the shoulder of Decoy. Yellow eyes ringed with black. Triumphant eyes. _Look,_ they said. _Look at what we caught._ He struggled to stay conscious. Victory was not theirs. He would not die like this. After all he had done, and still had left to do.

The one pinning him tilted his neck back. Couldn't swallow. He gasped, groped with his hands. Where was his magnum? His knife? Decoy caressed his jaw, ran its finger over his convulsing throat. Hunger radiated from its body. Feverish hunger. A bark of laughter at that. All this effort, just to eat him? Why not eat the Unworthy? Their numbers were vast. It would save him the trouble of killing them all.

It slid its hand over his waist, over his hip, and curved inward. He froze, meeting its eyes. Why was it touching him like this? If it wanted to eat him, why wasn't it eating him? Its lily mouth closed, then opened again, dipping the petals toward where its hand stroked. His nostrils flared. Every muscle went taut; his fingers clenched in a spasm. Madness. What motive did it have? He opened his mouth, and his words made way for a groan. Numbness turned into a blazing inferno. Lust hijacked his body, his hands tearing into the carpet, his spine bowing. Get closer. Need more. So much more. His responses excited them. Their sighing went guttural, the gleam in their eyes became blinding.

They flipped him over, tugged as his pants, the rest of his clothing. Hands sought his skin, parted his thighs. The feeling of hair brushing him, a cheek rubbing, a stinging sensation where groin met leg. Not the scorpion stinger. Something bigger. Wet. Drinking. Unbelievable. It was _drinking_ him. Fingers traced his spine, counting the vertebrae. When the fingers reached his buttocks, they slipped further. He groaned again, surrendering without a struggle. His solitude had made him weak. He had abstained for too long. Excuses, all of them. They did not justify his actions here.

Lightheaded, he leaned his forehead on the carpet, smelled the mold and the dust and imagined that red-haired boy walking barefoot, the once plush threads between his toes. That boy was dead. He had killed them all. Not Worthy. No one was Worthy. All were failures. No, his numbers were correct. Someone had to be left. Just one. All he wanted was one. One would be enough.

The sucking became intense, this purloining of his blood. Hands gripped his thighs. He couldn't help but thrust. Helpless. At their mercy.

_What are you doing, Albert?_ Excella in his ear, disgust in her voice. _I cannot bear to watch this grotesque display. A god, consorting with demons. How vile. _

He shook on his hands and knees, overcome. "I can't...I can't stop." He had nothing to fight for. His new world stood like an empty house. Furniture and decorations, but no people. Rats and insects thrived, nested in the walls, ate the food. Even if people returned, they would flee. His house, infested, creatures breeding out of control. If he could light a match, he would burn it.

Something inside him bent, flexed itself free. A hidden ball of strength not his. Uroboros. His mind went back to the volcano, to the missile he had plunged his hand into. Cool ichor, alive and powerful. He swooned, a rush of energy leaving him.

Outside, one of the Unworthy wailed.

They all froze. Heads went into the air, sniffing. Hyenas sensed a lion approaching. He watched them, furious they had stopped touching him – relieved they were distracted. His mind and body warred. A paradox. He made no sense.

The one drinking him let go, reluctant as a cat pulled away from cream. A small, needy noise escaped him. Humiliating. Red dripped down his leg in a thin trail. Anticoagulant in their saliva. A sample of his blood should confirm this. Such a bizarre vicissitude of the plaga anatomy. What need would they have to pacify their victims? Incite arousal, make the prey docile, even willing?

In a careful, slow crawl, he began his retreat. His head cleared in small amounts, clouds of confusion dissipating every inch he scooted away. Despite his caution, they paid him no attention. No sighing. Their eyes fixed outside, lily mouths wide, stingers raised and ready.

Except Decoy. It knew a good thing when it had it. Stubborn creature snatched his leg, dragged him back. He kicked it in the face. Like a venus fly trap, the lily mouth closed over his foot, and the stupidity of his actions horrified him. When had they taken his boots?

Decoy stung him several more times. He lost count of how many.

The carpet greeted his body. Astonishing that it didn't catch fire. Flames ate him from the inside out. His blood boiled in his veins. The world painted itself in reds. Glass broke. Movement around him. Thrashing. The intruding Unworthy shrieked. More glass breaking. Something squealed in pain. Then chilly breath on his face. He welcomed the cool air. A tiny fan on a big fire. Not enough. He needed a windmill.

_It's alright, darling. See? They heard your call_. Excella kissed his cheek, stroked his chin. Memories of old times. That black leather couch. What they did on it. Through the flames and ash, she smiled at him. He felt...regret. He had been difficult back then. Judgmental. He had known all along she wasn't worthy, but it infuriated him when she had assumed her place would be at his side.

Arrogance, a vise that had crushed them both.

_Shh. The past is gone, remember? Dead like the __Old World.__ Just rest. You poor thing, look at what they've done to you. You must heal. Uroboros will keep you safe until you have recovered. _

Something clammy curled around him. Black. Familiar tentacles. To shrink away was a reflex, one he didn't have the strength to perform. The Unworthy cradled him close like a child. Cocooned him in ice. Its cloying scent crept inside his nose, coated his lungs. Foul, but he knew it wouldn't hurt him. Excella was right. He had summoned it. Somehow. But just "how", he would wonder about later. His theories never abated.

The fires raged on.

He slept.


	2. Facets Of The Past

**-Chapter 2: Facets of the Past- **

_Helicopter blades. Silent. Rotating. Fire ate his legs, a faint twinge of the agony it had been. Darkness coiled around him. Uroboros, unable to flee his flesh, his rage. _

_The smug expressions of Chris and Sheva. Tiny faces. Far away, yet close enough to touch. The sweat beaded on Chris' upper lip. The powerful urge taste it. He shuddered, growing hard. Everything rippled in flames. _

_Snow falling. He lay on his back in a sea of white, one gloved finger tracing a figure eight. Beginning and the end. The snow never touched his face. Big flakes. Like stars falling. His breath plumed ice crystals. Black diamonds. _

_A mailbox in the middle of a vacant street. Gifts in his arms. Red and green wrapping. Golden bow. Another year of hard work. His contingency plan. Inside glass tubes shimmered gems. Obsidian. Deadly. Would melt at the human touch. Not mailed to government, or even to the rich. He gave to the poor, the ignorant. _

_All over the world. A secret Santa. _

_Merry Christmas._

_Let fate decide who was naughty or nice. _

_The volcano. His hell. The helicopter, a white speck in the sky. Fools. All of them. The rockets had missed. He was alive. Burning, but alive. _

_Inch by inch he crawled from the hot soup, his would-be molten grave. The memory of the pain had him screaming. Snow falling here, too. This time it touched his face, cooling, turning to soot. His fingers dug into the earth. Uroboros used his body as a cave to hide. A wary, exhausted beast. It hissed one word. _

_Live._

He opened his eyes. Sunny bands on the carpet. Jagged glass reflected prisms on the wall. He lurched to his feet and into a corner, his hands denting the plaster. His breath came in rasping spurts.

Assess.

Carpet ripped, revealing scratched hardwood floors. Gouged wallpaper. Tar stains over the walls, ceiling. Smells assaulted him, a festering slaughterhouse. His stomach cinched in dismay.

In the wrecked bathroom, he heaved. Fingers clutched the sides of the filthy toilet. Glass cut into his knees. The window gaped, a distorted mouth where teeth hung in pieces, tongue in ribbons. Close to fainting, his forehead on the toilet rim. Inside, bile mixed with purple. It smelled wrong. Not blood. Inhale through nose. Exhale through mouth. The breeze outside cooled his sweat. Refreshing. Sweet.

Downstairs, the Unworthy gurgled.

He hauled himself to his feet. Left his mess. His clothing on the floor, scattered. Boots, MIA. His body armor? Ruined. It reeked of offal. Dried slime crusted the torn edges.

No bodies left behind. Just their blood. Purple trails of mucus. The scientist in him ignored his aches and complaining stomach. He went into the kitchen, rummaged through the termite-infested cupboards. Found a dusty shot glass. He collected enough mucus to fill it halfway, and covered it with plastic wrap.

Plastic. The ever versatile resource.

Dizziness ebbed. Then left him entirely. His stomach quit turning itself inside out. He traveled through rooms without fear. Past experiences told him they would not return until dark. Cliché. Did they sleep in coffins? Fear the cross? Holy water? He chuckled without amusement.

The Unworthy babbled again, reminding him of its presence.

The stair railing, once white, now covered in mold. Moisture from the broken window had encouraged fungi, small plants to sprout between the cracks in the wood. Details he had missed last night. Understandable. He had been...preoccupied.

Below him, the Unworthy ambled in circles. It bumped into the walls, disturbed the ivy growing there. It tasted the leaves, then spat them out. Noises like a cooing baby. Endearing. Strange. He thought of reasons for its behavior. Had he...damaged it somehow? He could not deny last night. Even with the haze, the surreality of it all. He had summoned it. His own personal golem.

The implications. Too many. He had avoided these creatures all these years. Never tried to make contact. Unthinkable. They were Unworthy. Beneath him.

_Still saved your worthless ass, though, didn't it? _Chris said. No face this time. Just his impudent voice. _Shouldn't you say thank you? Give it a hug? _

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" When he spoke, the Unworthy stopped moving. Its coos ceased. Its bulk shifted upward, swaying. Sightless eyes studied him.

_I think it's waiting for orders, sir. Maybe you should make it carry you down the stairs? Feed you grapes? Fan your delicate pale skin?_

"I will do nothing." Even in death, Chris provoked him. He was the worst of the voices. His ghosts. Excella was tolerable. Even desired...at times. But even she was prone to fits of shrill ranting. The pretend, the perfect imitation of the real.

Listen to him. Musing on echoes. Giving them motivations. They were dead.

_And you murdered us, _Chris and Excella whispered.

The Unworthy reached for him. One tendril slipped around his leg. Tentative. He stomped on it with his bare foot, goo rising between his toes. It shrieked. Fluid spinning motions. Black splattered, oozed. It crashed into walls, ripped free the dangling chain lamp above, and burst through the patio doors, taking part of the wall with it.

He followed this flailing, liquid child. It howled again. Movements sporadic, wild. A porch swing tipped over. A rusted table flung into the fence. Grass and dirt scattered in clumps.

This temper tantrum, because he had spurned it?

It regained its senses. Or seemed to. It swayed to a halt. Limbs dropped. Twitched. Then it tipped to one side. Inch by inch it tipped until it slumped over, a giant black wedding cake melted by the sun. Patches of gray spread over its flesh. Entire surface consumed within seconds. It uttered one last, wrenched cry.

Then died.

On cue, the wind.

The wedding cake became sand.

He sifted through the remains, saw purple glitter among the ash. It became clear. It had been poisoned. By them. The Unworthy must have tried eating them, or they had stung it.

The results, fatal.

_Butterflies with poisoned wings. _

He resented these plagas. These new mutations. It was practically cheating.

_Getting a taste of your own medicine sucks doesn't it, Captain?_

Ghosts. He did not answer them. The purple glitter went into another shot glass. More plastic. His coat pocket would shelter the samples for now. His sanctuary wasn't far, a small Tricell clinic a few blocks away. Too bad it didn't have running water. He was thirsty.

Still barefoot, he left the house.

Birds outside, trilling new songs. He would have observed them in normal conditions, catalog any unfamiliar species –

His walk faltered.

His notebook. In his bag –

In the gas station bathroom.

He spat one word. Birds alighted, squawked at him in rebuke.

_Oh, potty mouth. It's your own damn fault. _Chris laughed in his head. _Chased by vampire plagas and you fall apart. Shoulda left that bag in your hidie hole, eh? Poor baby. Better get back there, and see if they left it in one piece. God forbid if they took Samurai – _

He reached the gas station in record time.

Inside, no bodies. Just like the house. What remained were blood stains. Toppled aisles. Packages of mummified food. A destroyed coffee station.

The bathroom.

He slammed open the door, looked, then slammed it again. And again. And again. It fell off its hinges. He picked it up and threw it through the wall.

For Samurai, he peered under the displays, under the hot dog island, behind the resister counter, under fallen racks. Searching became a frantic, labored pursuit. Sweat poured. Breathing changed to panting. Nothing. Not. A. Damn. Thing. He stood there in the station, shaking. Gone. His gun. His bag. The last six years of personal reflection. Species gathering. Gone.

Stolen by flower-mouthed idiots.

Something worse than fury possessed him. Worse than rage.

"Why? Why the hell my bag and gun?" he shouted at the empty station. "For what purpose? They don't use weapons! They can't even form coherent sentences!_ 'Father. Come play_'. Nothing but drivel. Nothing but nonsense!_"_ He flipped the last standing aisle on its side. Relics from the Old World flew over the floor, garish logos meant to attract the eye, but they repelled his. Syrup dribbled from the soda fountain. He tossed it through the window. "Parrots. Mimics. Mimes. Chemical misfires from the host's decomposing brain. Empty-headed, smelling pests! Why couldn't you all just _fucking_ die?"

_Darling, darling! This is unbecoming. _Excella at his side, purring, a cat trying to sooth her master. _Calm yourself. _

"No! I despise them all!" Another crash. The cash register shared the soda station's fate. Faded bills fluttered between the rusting shells of cars. "They _fed _on me. Put their filthy _mouths_ on me. And then they steal my work? For what purpose? None! My journal is gone! Samurai is gone – and that gun was mine! Kendo made it for me!"

_Yes, it was beautiful. _Excella stroked his cheek. He swatted her hand away. The hot dog display. He intended to pummel that next. She whispered in his ear. Warm breath. Inviting. Her words began to make sense._ But it was only a weapon, Albert. Just a hunk of metal. Frivolous. You are ranting about things you cannot change. What's done is done. Begin again. Move on. Adapt. Be stronger, smarter than they. _

Fingers to his forehead. Trembling. Moisture on his cheeks. Not sweat. That sobered him, brought him back. He closed his eyes, took a long breath. Better. Much better.

Screaming at no one had parched his throat. In the bathroom, he bent under the faucet. Drank like a horse.

Rusty water had never tasted so wonderful.

-:-:-:-

Woodward Avenue. Highway. Six lanes. Now, a sylvan paradise. Over his shoulder, a new bag. A black and gray monstrosity designed for the gym. It should be full. He shouldn't be able to zip it. Inside, samples from the house in proper containers, hygiene products, grooming items, rechargable batteries, bottled tap water from the gas station (the reason he had been there in the first place), another solar lamp, digital camera, USB flash drives, and new clothing courtesy of Meijer.

Three items missing. The substitutes he had gleaned from the store could not compare.

He had packed in haste. Outside the Tricell clinic, handprints on the dirty windows. Dozens of them. No forced entry, but they _knew._

A miserable cloud hung over him. Pessimistic rain. Sullen thunder.

Excella called it, "brooding".

Chris called it, "pouting".

He preferred, "pensive".

Morning temperatures had started off mild, sunny. Mid-afternoon, thirty degrees cooler. Snow flakes drifted. Michigan weather. Obnoxious. Long treks like this made him wish for a plane. No longer possible. Three in the past year, sabotaged by them.

To taunt him further, his stomach gave a fierce, growling kick.

Add another grievance. Hunger.

The pangs had begun in the Meijer stockroom, where he foraged for paper supplies not nesting material for rats, or eaten by bugs. He ignored the human urge, beset by more crucial objectives. Samuari. Journal. Notes. It would retreat, only to circle around and attack again.

The longest he had gone without eating. Five days. It had been only two. The cause was obvious.

Their venom, thief of his strength.

He appeased his ravenous appetite with a promise. Sustenance wasn't far. To the southeast, the scent of fur and blood. He had spotted the herd from a mile away, grazing with refugees from the Detroit Zoo.

Before Uroboros: Whitetail. Zebra.

After Uroboros: the Whitetail had bred with exotic cervine from the zoo. Antlers unbranched, spiraled two feet above their heads. Their shaggy coat, dappled crimson and black. These colors provided camouflage for their choice of sustenance, a new species of flowering bush he called Blood Thorn.

The Zebra had lost their stripes in favor of denser fur for Michigan's fickle climate, ivory encroaching brown. In winter they would become hornless unicorns.

Herd less than a quarter mile. He kept to the treeline, cautious. These deer still saw in monotone, sensed predators with their nose. Their munching neighbors did not. The zebras yodeling calls would be disaster.

Closer. Downwind. Zebra lifted their heads, eyes aware. Watchful. Deer flicked their puffy tails. He set his bag to the side, behind a large, golden-leaved oak. His coat came next, his turtle-neck. He crouched, stalked toward them on his hands and knees. Several prey within range now. Blood sang in his ears, his heartbeat doubling. Familiar fluttering throughout his thighs, his hamstrings. Wait - not right. Weakness. Fatigue. He paused in the grass, a cheetah uncertain for the first time if he would be fast enough.

The herd continued to graze, unaware. Then the nearest doe curved her neck toward him, dainty nostrils flaring.

Instinct shoved aside misgivings.

He sprang.

They scattered.

In a chorus of bleats, three young stags darted in three different directions. Clumsy, panicked. His scent baffled them, drove them into a frenzy. What was this? A two-legged wolf? A hairless lion?

His muscles protested. His speed suffered. The distance widened. Then by chance, they converged, the middle stag jostled, thrown to the back. Its misfortune, his opportunity. He tackled it, wrestled it to the ground, wrapped his legs around the flailing torso. Its scent thrilled him, the power in its struggles. It gave one shrill cry before he cracked its neck. Motionless. Both of them. His breathing slowed. His heart settled.

His nose in its fur, inhaling, nuzzling. His hands around its throat, relaxing, stroking the fur. Soft. Hot. His prey. His.

That feeling again. Something else inside him. Uroboros opened its tarry maw and snapped its jaws once. No fire for this meal.

He tore into it with his bare hands.

-:-:-:-

Renewed. Fresh meat had purged the last of the venom from his body. Uroboros was sated. Bottled water and hand sanitizer took care of the blood. The carcass itself he left in the street turned meadow. Scavengers had their way with it now. No Unworthy would touch it. Those who survived Uroboros had impunity. Even the lowest creature. Even plantlife that appeared unaffected.

After the Unworthy took to the streets, their breath tainted the air. At the peak of outbreak, millions of them, expelling Uroboros with every mewling cry.

Complete global saturation.

The sun hid, a ball of light behind a gauzy gray shroud. Snow increased. Flakes melted on his hair, his face. His dream lingered in his mind, those gifts in his hands. A building ahead. St. James Catholic Church. Ivy climbing the walls, steeple tower leaning, but intact. Windows retained their glass.

He considered, hefting the bag higher on his shoulder. Why not?

Inside, he reclined on a pew, his bag next to him. The interior remained unchanged. No moisture from a collapsed roof. No open window to invite the rain. Dust and cobwebs transformed this Old World relic into a luxurious attic. The sun had bled the color from the stained glass. The alter candles lay toppled and strewn. Rusted chalices. Missalettes and hymnals with shriveling pages.

A tristful Saint Mary gazed at him. Soulful eyes.

He unzipped his bag, pulled out his new "notebook".

He had chosen the most masculine color of the bunch. Red. But the round white face, black dot eyes, pebble nose, whiskers, and poofy bow diminished any attempt at dignity.

Hello Kitty. Journal and diary. The diary even had a lock. Plastic heart keys.

In consolation – maybe the bright colors and cuteness would confuse them.

Them.

They needed a name.

On the first blank page, previous notes, written in haste.

_Gregarious. Hunts in packs. Aggressive. Relentless. Limited vocabulary. _

Now the difficult part. He took off his new sunglasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose with the pen. Observe. Stay neutral, unbiased.

_Hosts of new variant: human male. Population: unknown. Method of propagation: unknown._

_Characteristics: Oral cavity houses the inner mouth, larger in diameter than typical majini or ganado. Interior mouth has a venom sack attached to the stigma. Size of this organ is approximately four inches. The delivery method of venom is a protuberance resembling a scorpion metasoma, complete with telson. Venom secretions are eggplant in color._

_Symptoms: dizziness, sweating, nausea, hot flashes, increased blood flow to – _

He leaned back. Saint Mary watched him. Eyes no longer sorrowful. Conniving.

_Groin. Acute arousal. Dilation of the eyes. Feelings of euphoria. Lust. Dulled inhibitions. Prologued exposure increases these symptoms. Time of recovery depends on amount of venom induced. _

He paused again. What to call them? He had enough information to be creative.

A memory came. He had been fourteen. His birthday. Spencer walked with him down a museum hall. Art on the walls, in cases. Sculptures and mosaics. Spencer knew the names of all, made him memorize them. They stopped at a painting. A crude depiction of a woman eating children, a serpent tail instead of legs. Blacks and grays, the swirls of red, vibrant. A smile quirked the corner of Spencer's mouth.

"Lamia, Albert," Spencer said. Rich voice. Sonorous. A contrast to the quavering old man he would one day become. "The queen who seduced Zeus. His wife, Hera, became jealous and punished Lamia. Took her beauty and forced her to eat her own children. Other myths have Lamia charming virile young men. They would seduce knights and heroes, drink their blood and eat their flesh. The Greek's version of vampires. Ah, the colors. Such a foreboding tone. I adore it."

Spencer led him then to the gift shop. He could chose one item for his birthday. Didn't matter the cost. This was a treat given to only Spencer's best students.

He never chose the most expensive. He chose the most practical.

That year, a chemistry set. The largest one they carried.

Nostalgia. Bittersweet. Memories were biased, malleable things, easily altered to fit mood and creed.

These plaga may not have the lower body of a snake, but the blood drinking, the forced seduction. It fit.

Pleased with himself, he wrote in the space reserved for their appellation.

_Type-four plagas: Lamia._

-:-:-:-_  
_

Before he left the church, he noticed the black stains on the pews. Large circles, some lopsided, some more oval than circle – several in a row. He frowned at them, brushed the dirt away. Touched one with his finger. Smelled it. Oil, rank meat.

Unworthy remains.

He wiped his hand off as if he had stuck it in raw sewage. This made no sense. Pew after pew. Stains no bigger than the average human, side by side. They must have gathered here before the end. Praying and weeping for a miracle that had never come. God had not saved them. All had been judged by Uroboros.

But with so many in one place, this church should be in shambles. Ink should be dried blotches on the ceiling. These pews should be matchsticks.

Instead, little stained circles. Not one Unworthy had struggled. Not one had consumed the others.

Saint Mary did not glare under her shroud. Gone was the shrewd expression of before.

She regarded him now with...compassion.

_Poor lost lamb, all alone. There's no one to find you. The shepherd is dead._

No one looked at him like that. Not even a statue.

He fled her eyes. Her damn piteous eyes.

-:-:-:-

Autumn meant shorter days. He used frequent bursts of speed to cover more ground. Sprinting kept his mind occupied. Kept it from drifting into darker territory.

Nothing eventful happened. He saw the usual animals, the usual flora. It wasn't until he came out of a particularly long dash, legs ready to melt beneath him, that he heard it.

A fluting bellow, a whale out of water.

The sound vibrated the earth, shook his teeth. He stood there on the outskirts of Detroit, awed. A monstrous thing greeted him. Excella's final form could fit in the palm of its hand.

The Behemoth.

It towered above the city, a creature straight out of a Lovecraftian horror novel. Black tendrils waltzed over and around the skeleton remains of buildings. Not a brick fell, not a steel beam tumbled. A careful monster. The snow added a mystical effect; the city could be the sea, the buildings eroded rocks, and the Behemoth the Kraken rising from the depths.

_Yep, sure is bigger than the one in Europe,_ Chris said. _Wonder if it's everyone. Had to eat a lot of Unworthy to get that size. _

"I don't know," he said to the ghost. "It's...possible."

_So how does it feel? Knowing that every man, woman, and child in America is probably in that thing?_

He said nothing.

From the Behemoth's position, it appeared it had rooted itself Downtown, near the destination he had in mind. Tricell's corporate laboratory, Zion. This could pose a problem. The bigger the Behemoth was, the harder gravity punished it. Their movements would grow more and more sluggish until they stopped moving at all. And there they stayed until they died.

But before that happened, they would draw all Unworthy in the area to them, a siren call their smaller counterparts could not deny. In Europe, he had watched a line of Unworthy throw themselves at a Behemoth like lemmings off a cliff.

Hypnotic movements, charmed snakes under the mist. He had no idea if it was dying, or even close to dying. His experience with these aberrations was limited.

_'cause the first one had you running like a scared little girl. Never seen your ass run so fast in my life. _Chris' chortle was muffled, as if he tried stifling it. _Admit it, Captain. You look at that thing, and you actually feel guilt. You hear it cry in your dreams. And what really scares you is – _

Lights. Dozens of them through the snowy fog. Lights. He gripped the bag in his hand, unable to move. Wait. Lights didn't mean Worthy. Lights meant plaga.

Lamia.

He almost turned back. A Behemoth and the lamia. Together. Too risky.

_But, Albert,_ Excella said. _What if the Worthy are here? You would be walking away from your own people. _

"Why would they be here? In the company of those creatures?"

_They could be hiding. They could be frightened. Can you take that chance? _

He could not.

Daylight gone in two hours. He could make into the city in one. Then it would become a waiting game. Cloak and dagger. Move from building to building, leave nothing for them to find.

The Behemoth's whale song resonated, challenging.

This time, he ran toward it.

-:-:-:-

God did not exist. He had decided this at eleven years old. No all-knowing being dictated his future. He determined his own fate – even when it threw a curveball at his face.

An obvious trap. Mice trying to bait the cat.

But if he walked away, it might not be there in the morning. Wasteful sentimentality. Why was he so conflicted? He had made harder decisions than this. Ended lives with less fuss over the consequences.

Samurai, placed between Spirit of Detroit's green crossed legs. The inscription on the stone wall behind: _Now the Lord is that Spirit: and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty. _

The lamia, mocking him.

Full dark now. Down the street, Hart Plaza glittered like a present left out in the cold. No one to appreciate the illuminated sculptures, the fountains flowing. The Behemoth guarded the city from somewhere to the west. Branching arms of thick sinew passed above, the whoosh of air like great swooping birds. The motion stirred debris into mini cyclones. Its cries had silenced with the descending sun. A small comfort. At this distance, the creature would create an earthquake.

In front of his temptation, his legs glued to the pavement. An easy target.

The verdant statue, contemplative, one hand holding the sun, the other a tiny family, their miniature hands raised to the heavens. Pristine condition. No pigeon droppings, no rust, no signs of decay. Had the lamia planned this lure? Had they polished the golden sun, the obsolete family, knowing he would stand here like a fool, wondering why they had bothered?

Samurai shone, taunting him next to Spirit's bare toes. His fingers twitched, ready to hold it again.

_It's just a gun, Albert. You know they are watching. Waiting. _

_But Kendo made you that gun, Captain. He sweat and bled over your prissy specifications. You owe him. He died in Raccoon because of Umbrella. Because of YOU. You owe him. Bigtime._

"I owe no one," he said. "This is another test. That's all. A test to see what I will do. I think they are...studying me. Just as I've been studying them. If I leave, they win. And I can't let them claim another victory. Not after last night."

_Albert, please. You are one man. They are many. _

_Oh, what happened to you being a god? The Almighty One? You can take them. Come on, Captain, go kick some lamia ass._

His speed. His only advantage. But the effort to arrive here before nightfall had depleted his resources. He was hungry. Again. A long sprint could injure him, even knock him unconscious.

_A short dash, then._ The Arklay mansion version of Chris, before he had learned of his Captain's betrayal. Earnest candor. Eager to please. _Just zip on in there, snatch it, and zip on out. They can't touch you. _

"They'll try, but they won't." He passed his eyes over the wall behind Spirit, both sides of the road, the buildings cloaked in dusk. No sign of them. The moment he grabbed the gun, they would swarm.

_Go for it. Stop being a pussy._

He snorted. Hips tilted, his shoulders dipped. He imagined himself at the start line, the magnum his prize. Catch him, catch him, if they could.

A crack of his neck and he steadied himself. Ready. Set. G –

He shot forward, hand outstretched. Cool metal grazed his fingertips. Samurai was home again. He skidded to the left, aimed and fired at the first figure that dropped from the nearby building.

Empty clicks.

They had taken the bullets.

He spun, drove his heel skyward, caught one lamia in the neck. He avoided a sting from behind, and to the left, and to the right. He dropped low to the ground, his leg swinging in a wide arc. Four lamia fell. Others surged forward.

Samuari safe in his pocket, he tore down the street.

They vaulted from the rooftops, skimmed the sides of buildings, using the peeling framework to their advantage. He lost his balance rounding a corner, his coat ripping away from a clutching hand. Smaller figures looped behind him, faster than the others. Their breath scorched his neck. He zigzagged through a collapsed parking complex, evading, dodging, shoving his way past their attempts to grab him.

Out of the complex, into the street. Ford Field loomed ahead, the stadium promising a terrain he could navigate to his advantage.

Over the threshold, into the heart of the stadium he ran. An overgrown jungle of trees, shrubs and foliage. Bats shrieked above, disturbed by the intrusion. Other animals scurried out of the way with alarmed cries. His body on the verge of shutdown, he tried to lose them in the dense greenery. When that failed, he doubled back.

Two groups flanked him. The smaller lamia climbed the trees, flitting from one to another with ease of primates. The bigger ones traversed the undergrowth with the ease of serpents.

They surrounded him. Shrill cries from the small lamia. Sighs from the bigger. They pressed in, the circle getting smaller and smaller. The dark hid their appearance, but he saw tails on the small lamia. Prehensile, slender, two pronged hooks at the end. No wonder they flew through the trees without effort. He snarled, as fearsome as a cat without teeth or claws. One of the small lamia laughed. Tinkling, like high notes on a piano.

Female.

The laughing lamia stepped into view, confirming this. His eyes deceived him. Not human. Maybe never had been. Some hybrid of Homo sapien, plant, and lizard. Her eyes, slanted pupils – like his – but such a striking yellow-green they looked poisonous. Speckled markings descended her temples. Exact color, uncertain. Curved lines in the center of her chin, her cheeks, her forehead, as if her face had been sectioned for easy peeling. Hair, black and pleated in tight rows, hung to her waist. Plump ruddy lips, very human. Her body also, humanoid. Small breasts free and speckled along the sides. Her groin and stomach white like the underbelly of a snake. No navel. She moved with the sashay of a human woman, seductive, every bit the name he had chosen.

He backed away, into their arms. The males restrained him despite his reeling and bucking. They held him for her, and her alone. The other females had vanished. Was she their leader? Was this a Matriarchy? Nose to nose, her viper eyes mapped his face. Those lines on her cheeks and chin, they pulsed, pushed open a crack. Panic made another unwelcome visit. Nostrils flaring, he fought them. Kicked and squirmed and twisted. They held on, letting him exhaust himself. He slumped, hating them. Hating her most of all.

"Father tired. Nice?" she said. A finger without nails traced his lips. He tried to bite it. She laughed, that same finger now a painful pressure point under his chin. His jaw shut with an audible sound. "No bite. Bad, Father." Her finger directed his head to the side, baring his neck. This caused another flurry of struggles. Butterfly flutters.

The sting would come next. He prepared for it.

Her face pulsed open, a beautiful flower revealing rancid innards, filaments and anthers rotting. A second face beneath the other, black soulless eyes under the green ones, skull holes for her nose, small dark barbs like stiff hairs along her spread mandibles. A dozen of these dislodged at once. Struck his neck. Dissolved. The fizzing, the burning in his blood. He sagged in their arms. Uroboros sought its cave and cowered there. Summoning was out of the question. No Unworthy for miles. The Behemoth had seen to that.

Her fingers over his lips again. He didn't bite. Her thumb slid past his teeth, caressed his tongue. He sucked on it with his entire body. Salt and leaves from the trees she had swung from. The ones holding him slackened their grip, repositioned. His legs buckled. The males kept him from falling. He couldn't keep the moans from leaving his mouth. Her eyes, shining like the dolls in the yard. They did not accuse. They desired. Her hands went to his pants, questing fingers. He thrust when they made contact, a wanton thing, starving for it.

Her mouth lowered to his throat, above his pulse. She hovered for several moments. It drove him mad. He ground himself against her hand. She did not strike. Waiting became unbearable. What did she want? Him to beg? He obliged, pleading in a voice he did not recognize. Now. He wanted it now. Whatever she was going to do, drink him dry, tear him to pieces, fuck him senseless, he didn't care.

Her throaty laughter, a low C on the piano. "Yes. Father. We all take."

The initial bite was hers. Lily mouth fastening ever-so-slowly onto his neck, a ripe fruit she must treat with care. Precious nectar. The others did not share her patience. They shredded his clothing, struck one after another, his inner elbows, the junction of his thighs, behind his knees, his wrists.

The sensations, exquisite and agonizing. They dragged his heart to them, each one taking a drink, taking their fill. The world dimmed, the bats, the trees, the silver dome above him. They lowered him to the ground as if he might break. She switched her mouth from his neck to his inner thigh, her hands lifting his ass, nuzzled him as he had the stag that afternoon. They all held him that way, as if afraid he would somehow rise and escape them again.

Not much of his essence left, but they sipped, tasting him like fine wine. His breath expelled in drawn gasps. The entire stadium heard him. He began to see things, shimmering faces. William Birkin at the altar, wringing his hands. Annette walking in time to the music, white lace trailing behind her. Spencer, his constant dissatisfaction, his desperation, his heart dripping on the floor. Chris, sneering at him, then laughing, then firing those rockets.

Jill, after the window, her broken body at his feet, her defiance in the years following. He had desired her instead of Excella, but his pride never allowed it. Her shallow grave, all he could do for her in the end, the wooden cross he had found to mark it.

The lamia withdrew from him. He floated in a boat without an anchor, faces of the dead in the water.

They waited.

In small amounts, his blood came back. Rain refilling a pond. Bit by bit, the waters replenished. The progenitor virus, a tireless machine. It would keep on repairing, rejuvenating. Uroboros, the lubricant for that machine. It would keep him alive. Whatever it took.

He had secured his immortality.

Cuddled in their arms, they fed a second time. No chance of him springing free, not with so many greedy mouths leeching his strength. Lampreys on a shark. And after the second siphoning, there would be a third, and a fourth. He had been so wrong. These lamia were no random quirk of anatomy, or haphazard mutation.

Like every creature after Uroboros, they had adapted to their ideal food source.

Him. And anyone like him.

The Worthy.

* * *

___And credit goes to Skarto for the Hello Kitty notebook. We both thought that would be hilarious. Poor Wesker. Poor, poor, Wesker. _


	3. Sanctuary

**- Chapter 3: Sanctuary -**

He drifted on a raft. Sunlight draped him in garments of gold. Rocking sensations, a distant choir of sounds. None belonged. The waves buzzed. The seagulls beeped. The wind became a whirring nuisance. His dream slipped into a gray valley. Fog sighed around his feet. The smell of alcohol, the ache of a needle inserted into his arm.

A voice came to him then, low and comforting.

_Ah, right between. Right where you should be. You can hear me, but you can't understand. _

Movement around him, a calloused hand along his thigh. Cupping him. Rhythmic motions.

_I'm just a voice. I could be in your head. I could be in a dream. Would you like this to be a dream? I can make it very pleasant. Give in. Enjoy my touch._

Miniature responses from his body, a slight bend when his spine wanted to arch. A sigh when he wanted to groan. Only his breath had freedom, his thumping heart. Who was this touching him?

_Tread softly with your thoughts. A heavy step will spoil the dream. And it's such a nice dream, isn't it? You want it to keep going. You're close, aren't you? Yes you are. Don't fight it. Let your passion take over. That's right. Just let go. Beautiful. So very beautiful. _

Lips pressed against his temple. Breath harsh, ragged. His. The hand between his legs urged his pleasure higher. A burst of sensation. His peak rose from nowhere and everywhere. A sense of contracting muscles, of release. A long caress down his cheek, a gentle pat.

_That's a good boy. Let's hope we have more success this time around._

The gray valley tilted into the sky. Stars like gems crushed and scattered. Swirls of colors more vibrant than any painting Spencer had shown him. Endless. He would never find his way out. Nebulas and galaxies spun together, created universes of pure light. Blinding. He shielded his eyes, climbed inside a tiny blue moon.

The moon was full of water, the same ocean he had drifted on before. No raft, just him. So heavy. Sinking. Gravity captured his legs, dragged him into awareness.

The world returned with sound and feeling. Cushioned material beneath his neck, his body. Softness like the down of a baby lamb. Reclined in an S position, knees raised, back aligned. Beeping, steady and lethargic. Low frequency whirring. The hum of lights. Sounds from the Old World, comforting, like a heartbeat to an unborn child. The scratching of a needle against paper, the whisper of pages folding.

Eyes weighted shut by invisible coins. Silver dollars of lead. Arms and legs would not move. Bones turned to stone. Beeps increased. Steady incline. His heart.

His eyes opened inside the blue moon.

Metallic bubbles above him. Scores of them. Polished chrome reflecting the ambient lighting. Lamps of some sort, a ring of bright azure at their base. They arranged themselves in circular patterns on the white ceiling. The ceiling itself, a snowfield, contoured, sloping.

Naked. Electrodes all over his body. Readouts from two data machines spat into a plastic box. Monitors with his vitals. An IV stand next to his bed, the drip secured in the hollow of his elbow. The bed itself, decadent. Out of place. Padding that had conformed to his body: sapphire blue.

A desk to the left, cluttered with knickknacks, file folders in red, blue, yellow, a bobblehead of Obama, books, and bottles filled with unknown substances. A rolling chair, height adjusted for someone tall. Benign objects occupied a mayo tray: plastic wrapped syringes, slender tubing, gauze, and medical tape. Scalpels and their ilk, thankfully absent.

A frosted curtain enclosed him halfway. The open space revealed –

The beeping canter of his heart shot to full gallop.

People on the beds.

Unconscious. Naked. Two males.

Not plaga. Not human.

_His people._

The Worthy.

Pure elation. All had not been for nothing.

He devoured every detail like a starving man with a banquet mirage. If he blinked they would disappear. Their eyes darted under their eyelids. Dreaming. The one to the left, no more than a boy. Perhaps fifteen at most. Brown hair, curly. Smooth skin with a hint of tan. No abnormalities that he could see. Perfect. The other male, mid-twenties, head shaved, stocky, hirsute, ruddy complexion. He lay on the bed, limbs askew.

_Well, look at that. You were right,_ Chris said. Grudging respect. The Sore Loser Chris. At the gun range, he had used that same tone at the end of every session. Never could win against his Captain. The memory tried to rouse a smile, but his lips stayed unresponsive. _But Your Holiness, where the hell are you? What are they doing to you? And what are they doing to them? Those guys ain't getting a pedicure, or their hair styled over there. _

Something in the IV drip stitched him to the bed. No response from his arms or legs. A wad of sour cotton stuffed his mouth. His throat, a barren stretch of land in need of a strong thunderstorm. Glaring at his big toe for five minutes produced a feeble spasm. Not encouraging. His Worthy no more than ten feet away. He could not touch them. He could not see if they had his eyes. The monitors evaluated his mounting frustration. Blood pressure rising. Heart rate high.

No alarms. Yet.

Who would come if he set them off? The lamia?

The equipment looked maintained, the bubble lamps retained their bulbs, no stains or decay anywhere. This place stank of humanity, not plaga. Lamia would not care for such things. Their idea of luxury was a derelict hovel with tasty snacks they could pick off the walls.

The boy and man drew him again and again. No mirage. They dreamed. They breathed. They lived. Years of hopelessness evaporated like sunlight to mist. Uroboros had succeeded. Mankind had evolved. No matter the flaws, no matter the suffering, his design had fulfilled its purpose.

A moan, behind where his curtain met the edge of the boy's bed. Another Worthy. He strained his head the barest inch to the right. Salty dew blossomed on his upper lip. Tendons in his neck stretched beyond tolerance. The monitors blipped in distress. Another bed, a feminine curve of leg. White skin. A lock of hair the color of dark autumn leaves hung over the side. Face obscured.

Whistling in the distance. Cheerful. Coming closer.

Footsteps, the flipping of pages. A soft grunt of satisfaction truncated the tune midway through. Silence. A brush of fingers skimming the page. The whistling began again. A different song. Even more irksome than the last. A willowy shadow outside the curtain. It hesitated, reading. Then the shadow bobbed into view, became a lanky man.

He sniffed. A slight grimace cracked his frozen features.

A human man.

Unkempt dark hair, dressed in a dingy labcoat with a black shirt underneath. Logo: "I Bring Nothing To The Table". Expressive eyebrows, narrow-set eyes with protruding sockets, nose far too long for his face, hooked at the end. Small mouth, narrow chin. Cheeks gaunt. This human could use another twenty pounds, and a day's worth of sleep.

Solemn hazel eyes scrutinized him, then glanced at the Worthy. A knowing smile, sad and shrewd at the same time. Long knobby fingers grasped the curtain, snapped it shut. "I left this open on purpose...so you could see them." Oil and grit, a hint of European accent. The voice from his dream. Whether the context had been real or imagined – this human had some explaining to do. "You're not alone. All that searching is over. Bet that feels nice. Do you want to know about them?"

Vapid idiot. Of course he did. The man said no more and temporized by checking the vital machines, nodding at them, then tinkering with the IV drip. The tape peeled free. The needle slid out, fingers rubbed until he healed. A pat on his arm afterward, pleased.

A novelty. This man shouldn't exist. Not in his world.

"The two in front are recovering from feedings." One bony shoulder lifted, apologetic. A penlight appeared. Fingers lifted his chin. A camera flash of a weary smile. "Rather ardent feedings. Look up please. Thank you. The female is new, like you. Been here only a few days. Already she's giving them hell. Not smart, but brave. Look to the right. Good, good. Pupils are settling down – I'm Clive by the way, their pet scientist, and now your shepherd. You're my flock, for better and for worse. Look to the left. Excellent. Almost back to normal – I keep you all fed, hydrated, expedite your healing, and give you a place to rest without them jumping on you. This is Sanctuary. They're not allowed to come in here. You're safe for now."

Safe? Hardly. And neither was Clive once mobility returned. Nor were his masters. Nor was anyone else he found aiding the lamia. They touched what was his. Hurt what was his.

"Paralytic will wear off in a few. You'll get vocals first, then the rest. I have some good news." Clive's skinny body folded itself into the rolling chair, legs spread wide. Checkered pants of blue and green. Interesting choice. Clive heaved a weary sigh, some great arduous journey completed.

"You and I have been through a week of intensive fertility treatments, most experimental, most I've never even tried before – completely new cocktails, dosage adjustments, ingredient swapping – trying to get past that damn rampaging bonfire you call a metabolism. I think I've done nothing but eat, drink, and piss flat Mountain Dew and expired caffeine pills for the last five days. And you slept through it all, you lucky bastard. Ah, but my endless suffering and toil has not been in vain. The test results are in, and we have, finally, a success. Congratulations, sir, you...are fertile."

He forgot to blink. The monitors flashed his reaction in a series of angry red numbers. Alarms bleated.

"Calm down. Hey, it's okay. This is good, really good. Trust me. Fertility in males is less than fifty percent. Body temperatures are too high, kills the swimmers. And no swimmers means no babies. And having babies determines your role here at Zion. The Colony, or the Heart. The ones I can't...fix are taken to the Heart. The deepest part of their nest. Once there, you don't come back. Ever."

Information stacked itself as dominoes in his mind. Round and round the questions tumbled, no answers to stop them. Zion. Tricell's corporate lab now a lamia Nest. Heart. Colony.

_Keep up, Captain,_ said Chris. "_I don't think slim here is going to slow down for your doped up old brain._

Clive leaned to the side with a pained groan and fished inside his pockets for something that evaded him for several moments. Hand emerged, victorious. A small, transparent rectangular box. White lid. Orange pills inside. Over his mouth it tipped, half the contents tumbling into his gullet. Not pills. Tic Tacs.

Crunching. Swallowing. Big bloodshot eyes evaluated him from head to toe. Not the clinical detachment of a scientist. Intimate. Inappropriate. This human's hands had been on him. Molesting disguised as "sample gathering". Never again. Not to him. Not to the Worthy.

Thin lips parted, secrets on the cusp of reveal. Then they closed. Reconsidering next words. That shrewd look again, this time softened with a grin. "The infamous _Father. _Wondered when I would finally meet you. They've been hunting you for over two years. I admire your stamina. Kept slipping right through their slimy little fingers. Pissed them off – especially _her_. The queen. Her Cuntness." A sharp giggle at his own joke, then he sobered as if slapped. A glassy sheen to his eyes, his gaze on a distant point in time. "She almost didn't let me have you. Her handmaidens – those are the females – wouldn't stop feeding. Couldn't get enough. Greedy bitches. You're one of a kind. It's your blood, your taste. You're practically catnip to them."

More dominoes fell. Fast. Furious. A whirling cascade that had his hands clenching into tight knotted fists at his sides. A good sign. Mobility at fifty percent. Stitches were stretching, fraying like scorched twine. Freedom soon. And soon the end to this monkey's witless babble.

"And that's going to be a problem, even with your new Breeder status. The rest here aren't like you, don't have your level of _sweetness_. You'll have to tiptoe around the handmaidens from now on, keep your head down and that mouth shut. I'm saying this not to be an asshole, I'm saying this because I put a lot of work into you. I had to keep promising things to that bitch. More like you. More with your blood. That's the only reason you're here."

"The only thing I'll be tiptoeing around is your _corpse._" A menacing whisper. His hands jerked, Clive's throat already between them. Mobility at seventy percent.

"Ah, he speaks. And with threats. Predictable."

"I don't know how you survived, and I don't care. The only thing that matters is lying on those beds. My clothing. Now. And you will delineate every ingredient in this 'cocktail' of yours. I will know what you've been doing to them. Everything."

"And now come the demands. I've been through this before with the others. Your 'attire' remains as is. It's practical, really. As I said and you ignored, you are a Breeder – and you're meat. When you're not fucking or being fucked, you're a walking appetizer. Why wear clothes when they're just going to tear them off? Defeats the purpose, don't you think?"

Laughter. The force of it scraped his dry throat. Audacious little monkey.

"You're taking this so well. Most of you cry, throw temper tantrums."

His voice spooled silk laced with slivers of glass. "Your status as last human on earth is in jeopardy, Clive. I suggest you comply. My clothing. My gun. And my bag."

"Which one?"

"Excuse me?"

"Which bag? The first or the second?"

They stared at each other. The Tic Tac container tilted once more. Loud crunching. Clive rocked back in his chair. Composed. Unafraid. A shadow crossed his lean features. The desk drawer opened and out came a familiar leather-bound book. Initials "A. W." engraved in gold on the bottom right corner.

Clive tossed it onto the nearby mayo tray. Clamps and instruments clattered. So much for sterility. "Albert Wesker. Been missing that haven't you? Oh, yes, I know your name – we all know your name. United Nations even had a reward. Lots of zeros. Toward the end, they didn't want to lock you away, they wanted you to cure it. They even begged on national television. But by then, the outbreak went global. No one cared. Every man for himself."

"How much did you r – "

"All of it. Once I read the first page I couldn't stop. I had to know why. Your reasons – fucked up as they were. Then I realized knowing doesn't help you sleep at night. And the worst part? You made it seem so rational. Logical. We were ants. Annoying little ants in need of a good squashing – but it's alright. You're contained – better late than never, right? The man who ended the world is now laying naked and drugged on my bed. My, how the mighty fall."

Electrodes popped off. Vitals flat-lined.

He backhanded Clive right out of his chair. The curtain collapsed. Metal rings clattered to the floor.

A fish in a plastic net, floundering, gasping. The Worthy stayed asleep, oblivious to their shepherd's plight. His hands found Clive's neck past his thrashing, gangly limbs. He held him aloft with one, the other became a claw, fingers of steel.

Tribute to the lamia queen: Clive's heart on a stick. Hers would join soon after –

A pained scream. His own. He dropped Clive, then joined him on the floor. Convulsions racked him. His body became a ridged stick in someone's electrified hands. Back and forth they bent, his spine splintering with every pass.

Clive's voice above the anguish, a tired wheeze. "No restraints, Albert. Why do you think I had no restraints? The implant keeps you from hurting the lamia – and me. It keeps you from escaping. Red lines. When you finally stop twitching, take a look down the hall."

Bending reduced to flexing. He let himself go limp. Gradual decline in spasms. He rode them out. Endured.

Bored with their toy, the electric hands discarded him.

Legs would not support, so he knelt. Everything shook. Even his vision. Blood dripped from his nose. When the tile lines stopped vibrating, he lifted his head. At the end of the wide room, past several empty beds, a curved hall illuminated in red.

Red lines.

"If you go past those, an electrical charge will knock you unconscious. I suggest you don't test it. I can't be there to drag you back to Sanctuary. Your _lamia _lurk around red lines. Easy pickings. Especially the new ones who don't listen."

"I don't understand you. Why help them? You should be helping us!"

"Don't pull the 'how dare you' bullshit! They hunted you. And you ran. You ran for two years. You know exactly why!" Clive held his throat, trembling with outrage. A front. Beyond his infuriated mask, shame sparked in his eyes. Then that spark changed to concern. Then fear. "Shit..._shit._ You're bleeding. Here, take these, hurry up."

Wads of kleenex thrust in his face. He refused them. Those fingers posed too great a temptation. One shock had been enough.

"Damn it! They can smell you, Albert. Shove this up your nose and get back on the fucking bed."

"Cooing in my ear and collecting semen samples does not grant permission to use my first name. It's_ Wesker_."

"Fine. Wesker. Clean yourself up before you bring the handmaidens up here."

"Fuck you, Clive."

"I don't have time for this shit. Wipe off the blood, or I'll do it for you."

"All this emphasis on mating. Fertility. There must be children. Where are they? What becomes of them?"

Clive's eyes skittered away. Mouth pinched tight. "They're safe. In the Nursery."

"How many?

"Twenty – no – twenty-two now."

"Do they touch them?"

"I don't know what you –"

"Answer me! Do they TOUCH them? FEED on them?"

Adam's apple bobbed. Face ashen. Clive uttered each word with care as if the wrong one spoken might combust in his mouth. "Not until they reach puberty. And before, they are trained not to fear them. Al – Wesker. Please. Wipe your nose."

"Your fertility drugs._ Breeding _us. Making more for those leeches to feed on. No. This is – no. NO. I will not tolerate this. We are not _livestock_!"

"What about OUR children? The ones your black worms ate?" Face to face. Kissing distance. Guilt had vanished. Rage streamed from Clive like heat from asphalt. "What did you think would happen? Huh? That you would have your Olympus and your golden circle – your Athena, your Poseidon, your Ares, and you would all have your perfect society, perfect world? Sorry, my deluded Zeus, you fucked up. Take a good long look at the mess you've made!"

His mouth opened to answer, but the walls began to shake, the floor, the monitoring equipment. The tinkle chimes of tubes rattling in their holders. The boy woke then, startled out of his dreams. Skin slick with sweat, breath puffing too fast. His eyes. Golden. Luminous. A candle flame behind glass.

Their gazes locked. And the Behemoth roared.

More vibration than sound, it rolled through the sanctuary, a cresting wave of a giant tuning fork. It penetrated. Resounded. Inside him, Uroboros rushed to meet the invading force, two tides clashing, exploding. Mental shrapnel pierced him. Tissue ripped open. Nerves burst. The intense weight of a million emotions bore down, driving him to the floor. Voices seethed in his ear. Inside his mind. His Uroboros became a receiver, transmitting a barrage of wordless accusations. Images of a black ocean. People not people between the waves. No eyes. No noses. Mouths. Yawning open. Soundless screams.

Europe. The reason he had run from the first Behemoth. Back then distance had aided his flight. Full impact had been avoided.

Broken crying. The boy could not cover his ears. The other two Worthy cried out, awake at the wrong time.

"It's alright. Let it pass. Let it do its thing. It's ending...ending...see? Its leaving. All done. Matthew, don't cry. Calm down, please. It's over." Nonsense words spoken to all of them. The images and voices receded. Uroboros slunk back into its cave, bewildered. Clive's hand, warm on his shoulder. He yanked free, stumbled to his feet.

"Oh here we go. Wesker, stop it. Get on the b –"

A charging elephant hit him, sent him sprawling thirty feet. White stars twinkled in his vision. Something slinky and petite pushed the stars out of her way. Not an elephant. Lamia. Handmaiden. She plucked him up by his neck – feet dangling – then slammed his back against a bed. He balanced himself in reflex, found purchase in a stiff, smooth leg. The female Worthy. The handmaiden's tail strangled his thigh, inched upward. Groping bitch. Her breasts pressed into his chest as she sniffed him, the blood crusting his upper lip.

"No, no, no, no! You can't. Please! This is Sanctuary!"

The lamia hissed at Clive. He retreated, face flushed, eyebrows knitting themselves into an angry V. She resumed her inspection, tail curling under his thigh, then slid _inside_ him. He grabbed it, snarling. Bad enough the Behemoth assaulted him with its strange visions, now this tail up his –

Her petals opened. Barbs readied. His breath stopped. Fingers loosened. He let his hand fall. A pause. Sensing compliance, the tail slithered deeper inside him. Seemed those hooks had other uses besides swinging through trees. He sucked air through his teeth, but did not move. The woman's leg became his talisman, her skin and scent keeping him compliant.

Delicate flicks of her long proboscis cleaned his face. The meager amount on his lip did little to satisfy her. The tapered end of her inquisitive appendage slid up his nose, wanting more. He snorted and growled. The skin stretched thin over her skull as her petals flared. Barbs wiggled in their sheathes. An unspoken threat. Do not defy. Obey.

"Please. He's a Breeder. You can smell it on him. You can't take him to the Heart. Here, Kyle is awake. Take him." Clive hovered like an anxious bee, no stinger. The handmaiden sniffed at him, dismissive.

"Clive – "

"Shut the fuck up. I'm trying to save you. Your hissy fit isn't shitting all over a week's worth of effort." To the handmaiden, he pleaded: "Kyle's sterile. Found out this afternoon. You all kept feeding on him. I told you that makes it worse. The treatments don't work anymore. There's nothing I can do for him now. Take him."

The stocky Worthy, Kyle, made a noise in protest. His complexion deepened to scarlet, then to purple. Furious tears leaked down his face. His monitors shrilled one word: Betrayal.

The handmaiden's tail withdrew, swished back and forth. He remained still, hand on his talisman. The woman's pulse throbbed in a frantic dance, muscles flinching every time he adjusted his fingers. An apology was in order if all went well. To her and to Kyle. To all the Worthy.

"Please. Don't take Wesker from me. He's a scientist. You've been wanting me to train someone, right? I could teach him what to do." Clive placed his hand on the handmaiden's arm as one would upon a bristling dog. That voice, the same lulling whisper from his dream. It had magic. Even the handmaiden couldn't resist. "See how flushed Kyle is? All that blood surging inside. He's ready for you. Go on, he can't move. He won't fight. Take him. Bring him to the queen. She loves fresh blood. She might even reward you."

Her petals folded into place. Pretty again. And hungry. She chuffed a final warning at him and Clive, then darted to Kyle's bed. Twice her size, but she carried him from the room without effort. His moans ceased once past the red line. Kyle slumped in her arms, unconscious.

Like a sleepwalker, Clive floated to Kyle's bed. He hovered over it, placed his hand in the center as if preparing to meditate. His mouth drooped in regret. His hand swept over the padding. Electrodes pinged one by one on the mayo tray. Stiff, methodical movements. He unplugged the monitors. Gathered the IV line and stand.

The woman behind him made a strangled noise. The muscles beneath his hand shrank into themselves, tried to escape. He let her go, an eloquent apology rehearsed and ready.

It never made it past his lips.

Several moments passed. He did not move. Neither did she. No IV drip. Clive's concoction was not in her system. Her hands gripped the sides of the bed as his had her leg. Her eyes. Golden like the rest, but a starburst of blue clung to her pupils, an echo of her humanity. Fear and fury made them radiant, the candle a shooting flame.

Antarctica. His arm around her throat, and then in her thick ponytail. It wrapped around his fingers. Satin. Her slight body strained against his. Her scent had been arousing even then, but she was human, beneath him. The sister of his enemy.

Monitors flashed with her panic. Her breasts drew his gaze, their gentle swell and sway a contrast to her violent panting. Then rest of her, bared to him, the arch of her collarbone, the svelte lines of her thighs, the curls between them. Red. Like her hair. Her scent, redolent of spice and jasmine and something he could not name. Nostrils flared as he inhaled. A low sound came from his throat. Not a growl. Something more primal.

Her vitals sounded the alarm, shook Clive from his stupor. Bony fingers yanked him from her bed, shoved him toward the fallen plastic curtain. "It's alright, Claire. Settle down. Cool off. It's okay. He won't bother you anymore."

"Touch me again, Clive – "

"And you'll what? Writhe on the floor? Bleed again and make me give them someone else? There's only two more left in here. Both are quite fertile. Selfish bastard. You realize what I had to do. Don't push it. Now get on the bed. I have to take some blood."

He would not obey. Her heat called to him. He felt her eyes on his back. Claire Redfield. A Worthy. Astounding. What were the odds?

"Wesker, please get on the bed. See, I said please. Now do it."

"I'm not a horse you can order to trot. "

Clive's leer looked more suited on a mental patient. "With the right motivation, any animal can be trained. I do have a little button I can press to instantly knock you out. Would you like to experience that?"

He said nothing. He idled a moment more for good measure, then he began a lazy saunter that took him to every corner of the room except his own. He ran his hands over the beds, smelled them. A trace of a male here, a female there. He kept his distance from her, but caught her gaze often, held it when she tried to look away. She did not speak, though he knew she could.

Matthew had dozed off, exhausted by the excitement and whatever sedative Clive had given him. He stood over the boy, watched him sleep. Damp curls stuck to a wide forehead. High cheek bones. Angular jaw. Youth took beauty for granted. Age reminded. But no more. This boy would enjoy several lifetimes of perfection.

"Wesker, I don't have patience for this."

"Where is the Behemoth? It sounded very close."

"I guess you could say that."

"Don't play games."

"Says the patient who's purposely wandering everywhere but his bed."

"Just answer the question."

"Since you asked so nicely. It's here."

"In Zion? Impossible."

"It's right smack in the middle. At its core. It fused itself to the building. Most of it is rooted in the lower levels and the Heart. The lamia, as you call them, don't seem to mind it. It keeps your Unworthy away. It's not in your journal, but your kind can summon the roaming bodies, the Uroboros failures."

"Of course we can. But that's not all the Behemoth does."

"True. It seems to have a strange...effect on your kind. I can't explain it. Nightmares are the common aliment. When it cries - and it does seldom, thankfully – it seems to cause both auditory and visual hallucinations. But only for your Worthy. The only thing that bellow does to me is tip my coffee over."

"You're beneath its notice."

"I'd rather be beneath its notice than its focus."

A wry smile at that. "Touché."

Back at his bed, but not on it. He investigated a pile of books on Clive's desk, found nothing of interest. From the mayo tray, he retrieved his journal. It would never leave his possession again. Claire perched on the very edge of her bed, ready to bolt. In this instance, the red lines worked in his favor. The years honing his instincts and abilities had made him more predator than man. If she ran, he would pursue. And when he caught her –

"Stop ogling Claire," Clive said. "If she decides to choose you – which I doubt – she will do so in the Mating Hall. Telling you the details is Thomas' job. He's the Alpha male, though I suspect that title won't be his for very long."

"Contrary to what you assume, I won't bully my people. This Thomas can retain his position without fear of me stealing it. What of the females, do they have an Alpha?"

"We are not your _people_."

A smile at her belligerence. He replaced it with indifference before he turned. "Ah, Claire, you've found your voice."

Electrodes like scattered petals on her bed. Her hand placement and body like Sandro Botticelli's "Birth Of Venus". Her hair hung to her waist in tangled waves. The bubble lamps darkened the color to burgundy. Nymph. Dryad. She belonged in a forest, not imprisoned inside a glass and chrome laboratory, parasites feeding and breeding her like a broodmare.

High and shaky voice, her teeth close to chattering. "Clive, I want to leave. I want to leave right now."

"Of course you can g – "

"Don't leave. Not yet. I need to know." The catch in his voice, why was it there? He wanted to rephrase, make his words colder.

"What, Wesker?" A domestic cat turned feral. If he spooked her, she would hiss – or scratch his eyes from his sockets.

"Chris. If you survived, the chances of his compatibility with Uroboros are higher–"

"Dead. Gone." She punched the air with those two words. "He died defending a Red Cross relief effort. They ate him. All of them. Little kids. Babies. It was after that I – " Candles flickered behind her glass window. She bit her lip until it behaved itself and stood still. "Became infected. Satisfied? Everyone you hated and who hated you is dead. Everyone but one. And I have enough hate left for all of them."

She stepped around the bed, still covering herself. The color had bled from her face, left behind two bright feverish spots on her cheeks. "I'm going to tell Anna who you are. What you did. And she'll tell Thomas. And then they'll all know. We can't kill the plaga – but you? We'll see." An ugly laugh, choked off by a sob. "Not even this Heart place is hell enough for you."

He made certain not to mock her. She was riled enough. Tone remained neutral, a thin thread of consideration woven throughout. "Please tell them. All of it. Embellish. Lie. It makes no difference. What's done is done. There are things you don't know, Claire – what you are, what you're capable of. I have much to teach you – all of you. As for Chris. It is unfortunate, but I'm not sorry he's dead. He had squandered his potential, pursued endeavors now no one will remember. Tragic. The white knight becomes a ghost."

And lived inside him. He could exorcise the voice, cast it aside. It has served its purpose when he had been alone, a companion of sorts.

_Don't count on it, Captain._

Three nimble steps in his direction before she stopped herself. Those movements aroused him more than her nudity. Such grace. Agility. Had she inherited his strength as well?

Clive in between them, waving his hands, fretting over two planes about to collide. "Hey, hey – knock it off. Both of you. Claire, go on. I'm sure Anna's wondering why you're not back yet. I'll go blue so you can pass. And you, don't even think about following her. You stay put. Remember the little button. See? I have my finger on it."

This implant. All future actions decided by a small device resembling a key fob, shiny red button under Clive's over-sized thumb. Even if he tried for it, the implant would jolt him. If he ran, the implant would knock him out. If he went after Claire – and he had been debating that quite seriously – Clive would incapacitate him.

"Do everyone a favor and lock him up. Give him his own cage. Lose the key. He's dangerous, Clive. He'll kill you as soon as he gets the chance."

"Weren't you told to toddle along, Claire? Clive and I have things to discuss."

"Oh, but you didn't want me to leave a minute ago." A purring feline, her claws unsheathed. "You wanted to do other things."

His step forward spurred Clive into action.

"Alright! You two know each other, hate each other. I get it. Settle your issues in the Mating Hall. That's what it's there for."

"Of all the stupidest, _tactless_ things I've heard you say, Clive." Claire shoved past Clive and stalked to the red line. "You're lucky I can't slap you because I would. Hard." She waited with her arms and legs crossed. His head lowered and face blushing to his throat, Clive approached the other side, staying well out of Claire's reach.

"This entire hall is in the red," Clive said, eying him as one would a wild animal about to attack. "Even if you make it past the threshold, you won't make it to the end."

He leaned against his bed, journal in hand. "Your precautions are all unnecessary, Clive. I can restrain myself."

"Don't trust him. Not even when he pretends to listen. It's all an act."

"See you in the Mating Hall, Claire."

She glowered before giving him a rather pleasant view of her backside. Clive sighed. Fob button depressed. The hall went blue.

Deliberate steps forward, unhurried, a doe unconcerned about wolf behind her. The last look over her shoulder would have made Excella proud. A cold mix of haughty and sultry. It lingered in his mind after she disappeared.

Claire Redfield. She would require patience, strategy. He had assumed the Worthy would be strangers, children he would lead into the future without the burden of the past holding them back. Some would resist of course, their minds filled with the horror of their birth, the loss of loved ones, but he would win them in the end. Even Claire. Show them all a better world.

_She will poison them against you, Albert._ _Use tearful tales of your treachery to sway them. _Excella spoke from a box somewhere inside him. Lid open partway. She struggled for his attention with faint words. _They will listen to her, abandon you. _

But he possessed weapons of his own. Genetic safeguards to prevent the worst of humanity's sins.

_Do you think that Affinity shit's going to work? _Chris scoffed at him from a chair in the dark. Shadows smothered his form. His beady eyes, fervent points of light. His voice, that gruff edge. A resilient ghost. _My sis is smarter than that. Use that touchie feelie stuff all you want. It won't change what you've done, who you are._

"I'm their creator. And hers. That's all that matters."

"Talking to yourself now?" Clive by the bed, drumming his fingers on the bolster. "Oh, don't worry. You're not crazy – well, at least not in this instance. It's a common problem. A few in here have carried conversions with themselves for hours. It's the solitude. Gets to you after a while. Guess not even you're immune."

"Is there a point to your prattling?"

"They'll go away. Your...imaginary friends. There's real people now to intimidate and threaten. Here, get on the bed, you can glare at me while I take your blood."

He shrugged. Got on the bed.

Clive gaped at him in disbelief, then fumbled about like a wind up doll in need of lubrication. Even the plastic wrapping on the syringe gave him trouble. A curt nod and tight smile met every sneaking glance Clive shot in his direction. The sooner the poking and prodding finished, the sooner his work could begin.

Quite the busy day ahead. Meet the Alpha male, Thomas. Determine social and psychological damage caused by the lamia's enslavement. Inquire the whereabouts of key targets. The lamia queen. The Heart. The Nursery. The Behemoth.

The Mating Hall would come last. No hurry. Claire would have plenty of share time with her new sisters, her stories of woe and dear departed brother.

The other females would shun him – evil villain that he was.

His selection would dwindle to one.

One doe who would ensnare herself with vengeance.

She would seek him out, confront him. And he would use her to teach the others. Worthy do not kill Worthy. Not even in retribution.

Once he conquered Claire, further rebellion would be quelled. He needed them united. Strong.

The lamia had declared war by enslaving his Worthy. The first war of the New World.

And he had no intentions of losing.


End file.
